Fake Plastic Life
by Amatara
Summary: When Alexander was eight, he threw a temper tantrum over a school play.


**Fake Plastic Life**

* * *

When Alexander was eight, he threw a temper tantrum over a school play.

It was the kind of story that cried out for reenactment at family gatherings, which his parents did enthusiastically, much to Alex's despair. He'd asked for a speaking part, and had been turned down. Not because there were better candidates, oh no. What Mr Browne had told him, with that bedrock certainty of teachers everywhere, was that, quote, unquote, "a shy boy like him would do better out of the spotlight". That had been rather the wrong thing to say.

The details had faded with time, but the injustice of it had stuck. So he wasn't a loud-mouth like some others. What difference did that make? What else did "acting" mean than putting on the mask of a person you weren't? And what business did anyone even have casting plays if they were too dumb to grasp that simple fact?

Still, the whole drama had its upside. When it came to acting, he'd never had to wonder how much he wanted it. He knew the answer, as clearly as he'd known when he was eight and screaming it at his teacher in front of half the school: more than anything in the world.

* * *

The one downside was that the pay was rubbish. Everything else, from the embossed name tag on his dressing-room door to the adrenalin rush every time the curtain rose, was perfect. Just fucking perfect. Take tonight. It was pouring outside, but he could tuck his feet under the table and sample oysters and champagne, all courtesy of the umpteenth posh reporter who'd insisted on this setting for an interview. If they thought stage actors dined here at their own expense, they were royally mistaken. Far be it for him to set the record straight. It was all part of the game; like the part where he was obliged to stomach the vitriol in order to get to the food. No matter how well he performed, he'd never be good enough to satisfy some of those vultures that called themselves critics. But that was old news. He certainly wasn't about to let it ruin his appetite. Or his spirits.

"So," his agent said. "On a scale of one to ten for ruthlessness?" She leaned in to pick a kumquat off his plate, and winked.

"This one?" Alexander gestured at the interviewer, who was speed-smoking a cigarette just outside the front door. "I'd say four. _Barely._ That last jibe about – what was it? 'Gratuitous application of pathos'? Just lifted it above the pubescent up to the mildly derogatory."

"Admit it," she said, suave as hell. "That last jibe _stung_."

Alexander matched her smirk muscle by muscle, but he knew _she _knew she was right. Bloody woman. Not that he didn't appreciate her frankness. It was his second-favourite thing about her, right after her complete lack of interest in getting into his bed. He'd never got used to the critics, like he'd never got used to perfect strangers throwing themselves at him at the stage door. On most days he just craved one thing: to be valued on an intellectual level, by people who weren't either after his skin, or his privates.

They always said to be careful what you wished for.

* * *

He rolled into TV work like most people did: through a mixture of sheer coincidence and stupidity. That, and some help from Gwen DeMarco, who'd landed him the role. The story of how they met was more cringe-worthy than amusing. He had been attending a premiere on Broadway when, at the reception that followed, several thoughts had struck him at once. One: people notinvolved in theatre tended to be far more appreciative of it than people who were, and far less snobbish. Two: if there was one thing he loathed more than snobbery, he bloody well couldn't say what it was. Three: if one and two were both true, why was he in this line of work in the first place?

He'd always thought he wasn't the drinking type. Given a choice between downing overpriced scotch and keeping his wits about him, he far preferred the latter. Which is why it made no sense that his next memory would be of tripping on a doorstep, only to realize there was no way he'd be getting up again. Not under his own power. Gwen had passed him by, taken one good look, and saved him. Not, as it turned out, because she knew who he was. To this day he still couldn't tell what had possessed her, fraternizing with a perfect stranger who looked three sheets to the wind. He was a melancholy drunk, which made it even worse, but she'd listened to his gripes and matched them word by word. She'd been doing commercials, but wanted out. Desperately. As luck would have it, she'd just had a proposal for a TV show, which… wait, weren't they trying to cast a British actor as well?

The rest, as they say, was history.

It was only later that he found out the difference, the real difference, between Gwen and him. In the face of adversity, Gwen was fearless. Gwen _thrived. _By the time he realized he didn't, he'd already sold his soul.

* * *

They waited to mention the prosthetics until after he'd signed. Alexander could see the sense in that move. He wasn't sure whether to feel revulsion or awe for the thing, which they claimed was a skullcap but looked more like the alien from _Alien_, spray-painted purple. One thing was certain: he wasn't wearing the bloody thing_. _Not ever. They'd have to shoot him first.

"Ah, come on," Jason said, pounding his shoulder jovially enough to bruise. Alexander cringed. "It's a piece of rubber. How big of a deal can it be? And you call yourself a trained actor?"

"Yeah, man," Tommy Webber, proud owner of more hair than the rest of them (minus Gwen) put together, grinned. "It's not like anyone's gonna see the difference."

"Don't be a kid," Gwen said. "Just wear the damn thing!"

Alexander closed his eyes and focused on positive thoughts, starting with the thought of not punching his commander-to-be in the face. Then he gritted his teeth, picked up the prosthetic by two pairs of fingers, and put it on. For some reason, he was expecting it to feel like a victory. Instead it felt like a wearing a dead animal, only stickier.

Two months later, he was taking the skullcap home at night.

The others laughed, of course, but he let them. Having it close helped remind him that he was playing a part, kept him from bleeding too much into the character or the character into him. There seemed to be a general consensus that TV work made one _less _of an actor than performing on stage, but that was rubbish. Theatre might be a purer form of acting, but it stopped when you walked out the stage door. TV was different. Once people knew you, you couldn't just drop the act once you left the studio. In front of the cameras, at least, things were clear: you were either in the character's skin, or your own. Outside, you turned into this insane amalgam of both, and there was no telling where that led. Some of them, like Jason, were brilliant at pretending they _weren't _pretending. But Alexander wasn't fooled. As for the fans: on a good day, they were part of the game. On a bad one, he just gritted his teeth and thought of parallel universes. In some other version of this life, they weren't even there.

* * *

It took a small miracle sometimes to realize what you had. That, or a minor alien incursion. Sometimes it took both.

His fake plastic console on the set felt exactly like that – fake, wobbly, and cheap. But the status lights blinked in their old familiar patterns, and if he squinted, he could almost imagine they were real. To some people out there it _was _real, in a sense, and he wasn't just talking about the Thermians. To the fans, _Galaxy Quest _wasn't just entertainment. It was part of their lives. And why should that be any more ludicrous than having a passion for sports cars, or cooking, or bloody football? It was the same for everyone, in the end: you just tried to squeeze your toes into whatever foodhold you could find. That went for Alexander as much as anyone else. If he hadn't realized that before, it had been his mistake, not theirs.

He stole a glance at Fred and Laliari, huddled together at the console next to his own, then at Jason, sprawled in the command chair as if he owned it. From across the bridge Gwen winked at him, straightened her jacket and grinned. After a moment, Alexander grinned back. Sparingly. But he grinned. What they had might not be glamorous, but the pay was decent and the company good, and at least he'd never have to moan about lack of appreciation. In some strange, twisted way, the job was all he'd ever wished for. Maybe he'd known that all along. Maybe that was why he'd hated it, or pretended to. But not anymore.

It might still set his teeth on edge to watch Jason sweep by his fans with the same ease with which he swept through an alien minefield, but the anger was gone. Jason could have centre stage. Jason was _born_ for centre stage. Alexander had never wanted it, anyway. He could live with playing Watson to Jason's Holmes, as long as that meant he could also bait him once in a while, and be Gwen's drinking buddy, and Tommy's funny-speaking ersatz uncle, and be at liberty to complain whenever he felt the need.

That, and get a memorable line now and then. Even if it was a stupid line about a hammer.


End file.
